4. Stone
Chapter 4
Stone
T he warm glow of pendant lights bathes our pack kitchen in amber as I watch Finn work. The massive space, designed to accommodate the controlled chaos of pack meals and celebrations, feels hollow tonight. Just as it’s felt hollow every night for the past…fuck, has it really been that long?… two and a half years. Two and a half years since it all started going to shit. Two and a half years since we lost that spark of hope.
Empty chairs cast long silhouettes across the dining room floor, like a reminder of who isn’t here.
As I watch Finn move, my gaze gentles. The sight of him still makes my pulse falter—straight honey-blond hair that curls slightly at the nape of his neck, shoulders that, while wider than a typical omega’s, lack the bulk of an alpha’s frame. He stands eye-level with most betas, taller than the average omega but still needing to tilt his head back to meet an alpha’s gaze. Those stormy gray eyes of his can cut right through bullshit when he wants them to, though tonight they’re focused intently on his work. Makes him look almost ethereal in the amber kitchen light.
Finn moves like some small graceful thing between counter and stove, his hands steady as he chops fresh herbs. He handles the chef’s knife with a confidence that’s almost surprising—those delicate hands so sure with the blade. I remember how he taught himself, spending countless hours watching cooking shows and practicing each technique until it was perfect. Until he could dice an onion faster than any trained chef.
And he did it all for us.
That’s our Finn. Beautiful and deadly capable, even if he doesn’t see it himself. The ambient light catches his profile as he works, highlighting the gentle curve of his jaw, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows. Everything about him is a study in contrasts—soft features masking an iron will, delicate build hiding unexpected strength. He doesn’t remember how close we came to losing him. The guilt of that secret bears down harder than any alpha command, but we made our choice that night. Better Finn hate us for our distance than know the truth about what Ren did. What we all did, really.
And so he’s been trying. He didn’t just learn to cook; he mastered it, turning simple ingredients into works of art that brought the pack together around this very table. Or used to, anyway.
He works for a few minutes, unaware of my attention, and it hits me that to any outsider looking in, all would look…normal. Just an omega cooking dinner for his pack. But I catch the slight tremor in Finn’s fingers when he pauses to check his phone. Again. The fourth time in the last hour. No messages.
The air is rich with the aroma of seared chicken and fresh homemade bread—Finn’s signature comfort food. But beneath it, I catch the sour note of his distress. Distress that he’s trying desperately to mask. Distress that claws at my skin, telling me I need to make it all better. Now.
I just…don’t know how.
He’s set the massive oak table for four, though we both know none of the place settings will be used. Jax and Ren are handling “pack business” again. Their chairs will remain empty…just like th ey have so many nights these past months. And mine? Well, the guilt won’t let me sit and eat. Unlike our pack alpha, Jax, I can’t pretend that everything is okay and just carry on. And Ren? Fuck, he’s probably too messed up to even realize the pain he’s causing.
Still, Finn adjusts each setting with care, as if the perfect arrangement of silver and crystal might somehow draw the others home.
I lean against the kitchen door frame, caught between entering and retreating. My presence might offer comfort, but it will also emphasize the absence of the others. My fingers dig into the wooden frame, leaving half-moon indentations as I fight the urge to cross the threshold. To go to him. To wrap my arms around his waist from behind and bury my face in the crook of his neck like I used to. The memory of how perfectly he’d fit against me makes my skin ache with longing.
The empty chairs mock us both. It’s a visual reminder of how our pack is quickly fraying at the edges.
When Finn’s hand shakes as he checks the oven timer, a dull pain radiates through my ribcage. He steadies himself against the counter, just for a moment, before squaring his shoulders and continuing his preparations. Always the caretaker, even when he’s the one who needs to be taken care of.
The warm, rich scents of his cooking can’t quite mask the pain. It’s becoming a familiar discomfort, like a splinter we’ve learned to live with but can’t quite ignore.
I catch myself reaching for him sometimes—an instinctive need to comfort my omega. But my hand always freezes midway, uncertain if I still have that right. If my touch would help or hurt. The distance between us feels wider than physical space.
There was a time when I would have known exactly what he needed—a gentle touch at the nape of his neck, a firm hand against the small of his back. Now, I second-guess every instinct, afraid of making things worse, afraid of the rejection I probably deserve.
I watch silently as Finn reaches for another sprig of rosemary, his slender fingers trembling slightly before steadying. The scent of his distress grows stronger, mingling with the aromatic herbs and roasting meat in a way that makes my insides twist with guilt. When he finally turns and spots me, he startles, the wooden spoon in his hand clattering against the counter.
“Stone!” His hand flies to his chest, but he quickly composes himself, pressing a smile to his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The wooden spoon in his other hand trembles slightly before he sets it down. “I didn’t hear you come in. Dinner’s almost ready. I tried that new recipe for herb-crusted chicken you mentioned liking last time.”
The hope in his voice is worse than any accusation could be. I can see it in the way he straightens his spine, in how his eyes dart hopefully past me to the empty doorway, as if expecting the others to materialize. His scent shifts subtly—a hint of anxiety threading through the warm notes of herbs and butter, making my instincts bristle with the need to comfort him. I’m an alpha, and he’s an omega. My omega. Every cell in my body demands I fix his distress. Fix this. Fix us . But I don't know how to fix what we’ve all broken.
“It smells amazing, Finn.” And it does. Everything Finn makes is amazing. He puts his whole heart into caring for us, even when we don’t deserve it. Especially when we don’t deserve it. The words taste like dirt in my mouth. Inadequate. So inadequate against the weight of what’s broken between us.
Just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I’ve never been more grateful for an interruption, even as shame burns in my gut at the relief I feel. Finn’s shoulders tense—he knows this dance as well as I do. “I’m sorry, Finn. I got an alert from the perimeter sensors. Probably just some deer again, but I should check it out anyway.”
The smile stays fixed on his face, but something in his eyes dims. He’s too good at hiding his pain these days. Too practiced at swallowing disappointment. He knows I don’t need to go check out a single alert. More often than not, it really is just deer and nothing to worry about. No one would purposely trespass on the Ironwood property unless they wanted to lose an arm, a leg, or both. But that’s Ren’s sort of thing. Not mine. At the very least, they’d get a hefty fine.
“Of course. I understand,” Finn says anyway. “Should I…should I save you a plate?”
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with all the other times I’ve said yes, knowing I wouldn’t return. Knowing the food would sit, growing cold, until Finn finally wrapped it up and put it away, alone in this too-big kitchen. My gums ache with the urge to bare my teeth and growl—not at him, never at him—but at myself, at this situation we’ve created.
His scent spikes with distress before he can mask it, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the raw hurt beneath his careful composure. It’s there in the slight tremor of his lips, in the way he won’t quite meet my eyes. The strained bond between us pulses with shared pain, and I have to fight the urge to cross the space between us, to pull him close and promise things will get better. But we both know I’d be lying.
“Don’t wait up,” I say softly, hating myself for the way his shoulders slump slightly before he catches himself. “It could take a while to patrol the whole boundary.”
“Right.” He turns back to the stove, his movements slow and controlled. “Be safe out there.”
I want to cross the room, pull him into my arms, press my lips to his, and promise that everything will be okay. That we’ll fix this. That tomorrow will be different. But I don’t. Because I’m a coward, and because lies taste bitter on my tongue.
Instead, I retreat, the sound of his quiet cooking following me out. Each step away from the kitchen feels like another failure. We have what so many packs dream of—an omega who loves us, who takes care of us, who makes our house a home. And we’re throwing it away, letting it slip through our fingers like water while we chase ghosts and nurse wounds that should have healed years ago.
The cool evening air hits my face as I step outside, but it doesn’t wash away the guilt. Nothing does anymore.
Behind me, through the window, I catch one last glimpse of Finn. He’s standing at the sink, hands braced against the counter, head bowed. The sight follows me into the gathering darkness, a reminder of everything we’re losing, one empty chair at a time.
I let the forest swallow me up, hoping it might somehow absolve me of the pain I’m causing.
The forest wraps around me like an old friend as I follow the familiar path to my sanctuary. Branches whisper overhead, stirring memories of simpler times when our pack was whole. When we used to come out here in the middle of the wild, just us enjoying whatever treat Finn made for us while we watched the stars. Back when we weren’t all walking wounded, tiptoeing around each other’s scars.
The alert from earlier nags at my conscience, but I dismiss it. Single alerts usually mean wildlife, and right now, I need the solitude of my cabin more than I need to patrol a probably-empty perimeter. The guilt of lying to Finn sits heavy in my gut, but out here, at least I can breathe. The forest doesn’t judge. Doesn’t remind me of broken bodies and shattered bonds. Doesn’t echo with phantom screams that still wake me in cold sweats. We thought we could protect Finn from the truth, but maybe we’re just protecting ourselves from having to face it.
As I approach the clearing, something makes me pause. Years of instinct kick in before my conscious mind catches up. There’s a scent on the breeze. It’s faded. Delicate. Feminine , with notes of…something I can’t quite place. Something that makes some deep pa rt of me stir with interest. My throat rumbles involuntarily, and I have to forcefully swallow back a growl.
Moving more cautiously now, I scan the area. The cabin looks undisturbed at first glance, but that scent… It’s subtle, probably hours old, but unmistakably there. Someone has been here. Is possibly still here.
The realization that I should have checked that perimeter alert hits me hard. Stupid. Careless. I’ve gotten too comfortable, too certain of our compound’s safety.
Drawing closer, I notice subtle signs I missed before—grass bent in an unnatural pattern leading to the porch, and…I frown, crouching to peer down at the dark wet mark that’s smudged the worn planks. Thin streaks of blood. They glisten in the moonlight, still fresh enough to catch the silver gleam.
My senses are on high alert now as I stand. I don’t usually walk with a flashlight, and I couldn’t be more relieved of that fact than now. I’d have alerted the intruder even before I knew of their presence.
Focusing on the door, that strange scent grows stronger as I move closer, and with it, my interest. There’s something about it that calls to me, makes me want to chase it to its source.
I reach for the handle, movements slow. I rarely bolt the door, but even then, it’s clear someone has been here. The handle doesn’t turn all the way to let me in. Normally, I’d be angry at the intrusion, but that scent…it’s doing something to my head, making it hard to focus on anything but finding its source.
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I ease the door open.
The darkness inside is thick, but that scent hits me hard—sweet, intoxicating, with an undercurrent of fear and exhaustion that makes me want to growl. It catches in my throat, floods my senses, awakens something primitive and hungry beneath my skin. The growl builds before I can stop it, clawing up my throat until I have to physically fight it back. As my eyes adjust, shapes begin emerging from the shadows. The familiar outline of the table, chairs, the trunk against the wall, and then…
I freeze.
There’s someone in my fucking cot.
My body tenses, ready to defend my territory, but something about their scent makes me hesitate. It calls to me in a way I don’t understand, like a melody half-remembered from childhood.
The moonlight filtering through the window catches on pale skin and dark hair streaked with caramel and honey-blonde highlights. It illuminates the delicate curve of a shoulder, the vulnerable line of a throat —
A female. An omega , my brain supplies instantly, recognizing that alluring scent that drew me in.
What’s an omega doing in my cabin? No. Scratch that. What’s an omega doing on our property, period? And alone, it seems. How did she even get here? The omega is curled into herself, like she’s trying to appear small even in sleep, and something about that defensive posture makes a part of me bristle.
I dare to take a step closer, not really believing what I’m seeing.
“What the hell?” The words escape in a shocked whisper as the moonlight reveals what I couldn’t see from the doorway.
She’s blindfolded. A dark cloth is tied around her eyes, digging into her skin. What…in the ever living…fuck.
And then I see her wrists—bound with coarse rope, the fibers digging so deeply they’ve left angry, swollen welts where she’s clearly struggled against them.
These aren’t just casual restraints—they’ve been tied with deliberate skill, the knots cruelly tight, meant to ensure she couldn’t escape.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, momentarily frozen in horror. This isn’t just an intruder. This is a victim. Someone did this to her. Deliberately restrained her, deliberately hurt her.
She’s hurt, she’s bound, she’s blindfolded—and she still managed to find her way here? What the hell is going on ?
Her dress—if you could call it that—is in tatters, transparent and barely covering her. I adjust my gaze automatically and catch sight of something darker staining the sheets in thin streaks near her side. Blood. The same blood I found on the porch.
Rage floods my system. Hot. Familiar. But somehow different. Deeper. More primal than anything I’ve felt before. This isn’t just anger at seeing an omega harmed. This is…this is something else. My vision sharpens, focuses on those bonds until they’re all I can see. The urge to hunt down whoever did this burns in my blood, turns my growl feral.
Who would do this to her? My mind races through possibilities, each darker than the last. Human trafficking. Ritualistic abuse. Some sick alpha’s idea of control. None of the scenarios make sense—especially for the fact that she’s here on our property—but the evidence is right in front of me, tied around her wrists, covering her eyes.
Her presence here could be a danger to my pack. To Finn . I should wake her. Should demand answers. But there’s something about the way she’s sleeping that stays my hand. Omegas don’t just rest anywhere. They’re notorious for needing safety, security, and familiar scents before they can truly relax enough to sleep. Yet here she is, passed out cold in a strange alpha’s cabin, despite being bound and blindfolded. There’s nothing threatening about her.
My fingers twitch with the urge to free her immediately, to remove that blindfold, to check her wounds. I clench my fists, forcing myself to think clearly. This isn’t some simple rescue. I have no idea who did this or if they’re still out there hunting for her. I need to be smart about this.
The bitter notes of distress in her scent tell a story of desperation and fear. Even in sleep, her breathing is shallow and quick, her body curled tight as if expecting a blow.
I take another careful step closer, trying to sort through the confusing mix of alpha instincts warring in my head. The need to protect clashes with pack protocol, boundaries, and years of experience that scream at me to be cautious. Unknown omegas don’t just appear in the wild. Not alone. Not injured. Not bound and blindfolded like someone’s escaped prisoner.
As a slight breeze comes through the open door, it stirs her hair, carrying with it a fresher wave of her scent. Beneath the fear and blood, there’s something else. Something that makes me practically purr with recognition. But I’ve never met her before.
I stare down at her, fists clenching an unclenching. She’s beautiful. Startlingly so. Despite the cloth covering her eyes. Despite the smudges of dirt and sweat. High cheekbones, full lips slightly parted in sleep, features delicate yet somehow strong beneath smudges of dirt. Something about her face seems almost familiar, tugging at memories I can’t quite place. It’s maddening, like trying to recall a word that’s on the tip of your tongue.
She shifts in her sleep, a small whimper escaping her lips, and my decision is made before I consciously realize it. I can’t leave her like this, bound and bleeding. But I also can’t ignore the fact that someone did this to her, that whoever it is might be looking for her right now.
The smart thing to do would be to call Jax. As pack alpha, he should be the one handling this situation. But the exhaustion in his eyes these past weeks, the strain of keeping the pack together… No. I need to handle this myself, at least until I understand what’s going on.
Moving with deliberate slowness, I ease myself down to kneel beside the cot. She’s so still, too still, and something about it claws at my chest. My gaze flickers over those restraints again, and a protective fury builds under my skin. I want to hunt down whoever hurt her, to tear them apart with my bare hands. The intensity of the reaction startles me—this isn’t just basic alpha instinct. This feels personal, visceral, as though someone has wounded something that belongs to me. And even I know that has to be fucking bullshit.
“Hey,” I do my damned best to keep my voice soft, pitched low to avoid startling her. No response. She’s really out cold, which only heightens my concern.
I should check her wounds, but the thought of touching her while she’s unconscious, while she’s bound …it feels wrong on every level. My fingers hover over her shoulder, uncertain.
That’s when I notice the slight tremor running through her body. She’s cold. Of course, she is—the cabin gets chilly at night, and she’s barely dressed. Before I can think better of it, I shrug off my jacket and carefully drape it over her.
The effect is immediate. She burrows into the warmth instinctively, turning her face into the fabric. Something in my chest tightens at the sight. At how innocent she looks, how vulnerable.
A loud crack from the forest snaps my attention back to the open door. Right. We’re exposed here. Anyone could walk in and find us, and I still don’t know if she’s being pursued or if there are others out there.
First things first. I need to secure the area, then deal with those restraints. After that…well, after that, I’ll have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with a mysterious injured omega who’s taken refuge in my cabin.
One thing’s certain—this isn’t how I expected my evening to go. But as I glance back at her, curled up under my jacket, looking so fragile yet oddly unyielding, I realize something else: whatever storm brought her here isn’t over. And like it or not, I’m now part of it.